


Chasing the Light

by Sarea Okelani (sarea)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Coffee, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Medical stuff, Natasha does what she has to do, Partnership, Pre-Avengers Movie, Road Trips, Slow Burn, morally ambiguous decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarea/pseuds/Sarea%20Okelani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slipsthrufingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/gifts).



> Apologies for the long notes, but I have a lot of people to thank! This story was written for ittykat (aka slipsthrufingers on AO3) as part of the be_compromised Secret Santa exchange. My prompt can be found at the end of the story; I didn’t want to give away too much at the beginning. :-)
> 
> Thanks go out to a number of lovely ladies: Anuna and Koren M for running a great exchange, ittykat for the fun and challenging prompt(s), daxcat79 for the awesome banner below, and my two tireless betas, Jade Okelani and Adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and whenever I encounter a roadblock, I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! And of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done (when they both independently said that I needed to add a scene or two at the end, I agreed with their wisdom immediately. OK no, I kicked and whined and resisted, but ended up listening to them anyway, and of course now the story is better). I am blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner.

“Chasing the Light”  
by Sarea Okelani

//\\\

_Every bridge that keeps on burning_  
 _Every leaf that you keep on turning_  
 _Every road that you find uncertain_  
 _Pray for you now, baby that you'll figure it out_  
 _As you keep chasing the light_

Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders. She’s used to watching his back, both literally and figuratively, but she’s never before had to wonder whether his fortitude is real or manufactured. Can he possibly be as calm as he seems? Clint is generally unflappable, prone to making cocky comments even while hell rains down around them (it was one of the first things she learned about working with him), but this is different.

She shadows him to the thick glass door, but stops at the entryway while he continues through it. He doesn’t turn to look at her or say a word until he’s on the other side; then he pivots and resolutely shuts the door in her face. He grins at Natasha, and it resembles the same grin he’s given her a thousand times. Natasha studies him for signs of uncertainty, of being shaken or frightened. She can see through bravado, _has_ seen through it in other people on countless other occasions, when it meant her life or theirs, and she’s the one who’s still here.

But Clint is just being _Clint_ as he always is, and she can’t understand it.

He’s acting like this is a circumstance like any other, but it’s not. Natasha isn’t prone to hysterics, to needless worrying, to optimism, but his equanimity right now is a puzzling thing.

Clint mouths something at her and gestures at his own forehead.

“What? I can’t hear you,” Natasha says.

Clint locates an intercom next to the door, fiddling with some buttons there.

“I said” – he’s activated a microphone of some kind, and his voice buzzes a bit from static, “you have a line right here.” He points at his forehead again, moving his finger up and down.

Natasha knows it’s his way of telling her that she’s frowning, which she didn’t know she was doing, and makes an effort to smooth out her features.

“Better,” he says, then turns away and starts stripping off his flak jacket.

His name is on the tip of her tongue, but she has no idea what she wants to follow that with, so she bites it instead.

//\\\

Natasha signed the credit card receipt, ignoring the interested look of the motel clerk manning the front desk. He looked and smelled like an individual whose personal hygiene wasn’t high on his priority list. He had a least a hundred and fifty pounds on Natasha, and as he gave her yet another lascivious grin, she almost hoped he’d start something so she could use that weight against him and add a few more gaps in his already-challenged gum line.

He looked at the receipt. “Thank you for yer business... Natalie.” A brown-tinged grin. Apparently he was a regular smoker, and had had eggs for breakfast. Natasha hid her revulsion with practiced ease.

Fleabag motels, sketchy rental cars, and greasy diner food. This was what she’d signed up for, apparently, when she’d agreed to work for the American government. Not to mention the sometimes strange, ofttimes jocund, and frequently incomprehensible partner she’d been assigned. There’d obviously been _something_ about him that had won her over when he’d made her the same offer she’d gotten half a dozen times before from other agents, but she wasn’t sure what that had been, now. Perhaps she’d just been too impressed with the fact that he’d gotten one over her, which had occurred so rarely over the course of her career before she’d met him that she could count on one hand the number of times it had happened. But better Barton as her partner than some other agent, she supposed. She could handle Barton.

There was complimentary coffee, but the pot was empty. Rather than talk to the clerk again, Natasha grabbed a package of coffee grounds and started it herself. She eyed the peeling paint on the walls with disdain. Certainly she had stayed in worse places while on a job, but when she’d been freelancing, when it was possible, she’d always chosen the best. She’d been able afford it, after all – her services had commanded a lavish price, and her days of living as a street rat, as someone else’s marionette, were over.

The coffee started percolating, its rich scent dispensing some welcome relief from the motel clerk’s personal odor. When enough coffee had dripped to fill two Styrofoam cups, she paused the machine and fixed one for Barton and one for herself. She knew he took cream and sugar in his coffee, and guessed at the amounts. Well, it wasn’t cream, it was whitener, but at least the beverage was hot and pleasantly steamy.

Outside, Natasha donned her sunglasses and made her way over to the rented silver sedan. Barton had spread a map over the trunk and was studying it. She handed him one of the coffees, which he took without comment, then brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Coffee spewed. “What the hell is this?” he spluttered. “This is supposed to be coffee?”

Natasha shrugged. “Tastes okay to me.”

Barton held up his cup. “This,” he informed her, “is not coffee.”

“The package said coffee, I’m pretty sure,” she replied calmly.

“Are you sure it didn’t say ‘vile sludge’? Because that’s what it tastes like.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sorry, did you want a nonfat one-pump vanilla hemp milk latte? I left my frothing wand in my other pants.”

Barton looked insulted. “It’s not _frou frou_ to want a decent cup of coffee.”

“You said _frou frou_ , not me. I just want that stated for the record.”

“Mildred’s on a break. She isn’t around to take that statement,” Barton said, referring to the imaginary transcriptionist who followed them around everywhere, recording their every word and deed. Natasha couldn’t remember whose idea it was to name her Mildred. Barton, probably.

“Oh, how convenient,” Natasha said, “that she happens to be taking a break at this moment.”

“She’s off getting a decent cup of coffee,” Barton explained. “She’s not the type to put up with this.” He gingerly took another sip, making a show of swallowing it, contorting his face.

“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” Natasha pointed out. “Or you could get your own damn coffee, that’s an option too.”

“Now that I know this is the kind of joe you make, I will.”

Ignoring him, Natasha sipped her drink and got in the car.

//\\\

“Agent Romanoff, do you copy? Requesting a sit rep.”

Natasha shifts gingerly, waiting for shooting pain to tell her where she’s been injured. She doesn’t feel anything other than a few sore joints and muscles, so she’s either okay or in shock from blood loss. She moves her legs, which respond as they should, and sits up. The movement causes the debris around her to shift; some of the dust gets into her lungs when she takes her next breath. She coughs.

“Agent Romanoff?”

She must be all right. They’re monitoring their vitals and Coulson doesn’t sound alarmed; he expects her to respond, so everything must look okay from their end.

“An explosion,” she says, pressing the comms link in her ear. “In the lab. Agent Barton, is he–” She can’t complete the question. There’s too much dust in the air.

“Unconscious,” comes Coulson’s voice in her ear. “Otherwise looks fine. Probably knocked himself on the head.”

Natasha closes her eyes, taking short, shallow breaths. “Well, as long as it wasn’t a vital part of his body.”

“I heard that,” Clint’s slightly hoarse voice comes over comms. He coughs. “No making fun of the unconscious guy.”

Natasha allows herself the luxury of a smile. “Stop sleeping on the job, then. Where are you?” She picks herself up, testing each limb in turn. Everything appears normal. She locates one of her Glocks in the rubble. “Jordan? Foster?”

“Foster’s dead,” says Coulson. “I have no data on Jordan. His electrodes must have detached.”

Natasha steps carefully through the debris, waving a hand in front of her to try and dissipate some of the dust in the air. She makes her way forward to the lab where the explosion originated. She doesn’t have a good feeling about this, but a part of her has known this was coming since she opened her eyes. Clint’s standing in the doorway – or what used to be the doorway. He has a fine layer of soot all over him, making his face look nearly black. He seems to be moving under his own steam, which is good, but he’s limping a little. He bows his head and coughs into his arm.

She peers into the lab and her heart sinks. Three charred bodies, somewhat intact, plus a bunch of unsalvageable lab equipment and research. But the worst part is seeing the open fridge where she knows they’d been keeping the AS-81. Natasha inclines her head at Clint, who nods, and they quickly move down the hallway and through the double doors on the other side.

“Report, agents. What’s the situation?”

“They’re dead,” Natasha rasps flatly. “All the scientists. They blew up the lab, it’s all gone. And—”

“Agent Romanoff?” Coulson sounds slightly less composed than usual. “The AS-81?”

“Destroyed,” she says hoarsely. “They had a failsafe protocol when they knew we were coming. Nothing’s left. And...” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “...Agent Barton was in the room when the AS-81 was destroyed. It could have gone airborne. We’re... I am recommending quarantine procedures,” she finishes, injecting a calm she doesn’t quite feel into her voice. Clint is frowning, looking at the double doors they just came through. Natasha isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but she knows him well enough to know that it’s not because of her conclusion.

“Granted,” Coulson says immediately. “No one has been in or out of the building since you entered. Seal off the primary exits and get the hell out of that area.” They’re all familiar with the layout of the makeshift lab built on the outskirts of the Sevier Desert in Utah. There are only two primary exits, and the lab is isolated from the rest of the place, so that part is simple.

Natasha already knows the answer, but she has to ask it anyway. She needs to hear it said out loud, by an objective party. She needs to know she’s remembered correctly. “The AS-81,” she says. “Symptoms of infection...”

“Appear within thirty minutes,” Coulson says, sounding gentle. “It will take a maximum of seventy-two hours for the exposed virus to die when exposed to air, so quarantine will not break until then. But you’ll know soon if either of you have been infected. The first sign is always a dark, upraised mark on the inside of one or both elbows, typically in the shape of a horseshoe. If you are infected, stay calm.”

“Right,” Natasha says, conveying a wealth of sentiment in the tone she uses on that one word.

“The virus typically runs its course through the human body in ninety-six hours. By the end of that time, if an infected person is still alive, full recovery is entirely possible.” What Coulson doesn’t say, but which Natasha knows perfectly well, is that very few people make it to the four-day mark.

“Do you hear that?” Clint asks.

Natasha shakes her head, preoccupied.

“They knew what they were dealing with,” Coulson continues. “There’s a medical area, and it will presumably contain advanced supplies.” He talks Natasha through things she’s already been briefed on, knowing it will help steady her. “They were working on an antidote. It wasn’t one hundred percent effective, but injections at regular intervals were shown to decelerate the spread of the virus. Regular blood transfusions will help; two units every twenty-four hours. They might keep blood there. After forty-eight hours without worsening symptoms, chances of survival are markedly increased.”

“Seriously, what is that?” Clint says. “You don’t hear it?”

Natasha tunes Coulson out so she can try and see if she can hear what Clint’s hearing. “It kind of sounds like—”

“Someone’s moaning. I think it’s Jordan.” Clint makes for the double doors.

Natasha stops him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go back in there.”

“I can’t just leave him,” Clint argues, but she doesn’t let go of his arm. “Tasha, I’ve already been exposed,” he says gently.

After another moment, Natasha releases him. “Fine,” she says, and makes for the doors, but this time he’s the one who stops her.

“No,” Clint says. “You stay here.” He counters her stubborn look with one of his own. “I was at ground zero, practically – you weren’t. It’s riskier for you.”

“We’re not entirely clear on how it’s transmitted. If one of us is infected, we might have already passed it to the other person,” she argues.

“It doesn’t make any sense for you to go back in there!”

“Agent Romanoff? Do you copy? Has something happened?”

Natasha glares at Clint for a few more seconds, then gives in by pressing her comms link. Clint takes that as a sign of her acquiescence and goes through the doors.

“Agent Barton believes he can hear Agent Jordan and has gone to retrieve him.” She can’t keep the frustration out of her voice.

A few minutes pass while Natasha paces. “He’s still not back. I’m going after him,” she tells Coulson.

“Negative,” he replies without inflection. “Authorization is not granted.”

In a fit of insubordination that is more up Clint’s alley than hers, Natasha is about to ignore the order and go in after her partner anyway, when she sees him through the thick glass doors. He’s heavily supporting Jordan, who has his arm draped loosely over Clint’s shoulders. Clint is practically dragging Jordan through the debris field, because the other man doesn’t seem to be able to walk or even stand up straight on his own.

“I’m taking him to the infirmary,” Clint says shortly after they come through the door. The front of Jordan’s uniform is soaked with blood, his face ashen with pain.

“I’ll meet you there.” Natasha confers with Coulson one more time, then punches in a code in a side panel. Presently a metal barrier rolls down, sealing off the lab area. She uses the same code at each of the building’s two primary entrances, barricading them from the outside world. Or more accurately, barricading the outside world from the potential contamination this building holds. She tries not to think about what that means for herself, Clint, and Jordan.

Natasha heads for the small infirmary, which she knows is up one floor. The building itself is not large, so it doesn’t take long for her to find them. Clint has already settled Jordan onto a bed and cut the other man’s uniform away. Her partner’s face is closed off and distant, which means the prognosis for their teammate isn’t good. But Natasha doesn’t need the look on Clint’s face to tell her that; she has seen wounds like the ones Jordan has before. It’s exceptional, in her opinion, that he hasn’t already succumbed. What Jordan needs is proper medical attention. Clint and Natasha are fairly good at patching one another up when the need arises, but those are minor wounds in comparison to this; the help Jordan needs is far beyond their medical expertise.

She goes into the hallway to report this to Coulson, but her comms link isn’t working. Sealing off the building has apparently disrupted their feed. She pulls the small receiver out of her ear, then goes back into the room.

“Comms is offline,” Natasha says.

“He hemorrhaged pretty badly,” Clint replies, rifling through the room’s medical supplies with his back to her. “Disinfected the injury sites as best I could. Applied some antibiotic ointment and just gave him some morphine.” She nods, even though he can’t see it. “He passed out.”

“His organs are failing,” Natasha says. “He probably won’t last the night.”

“He might. They’ve got to have blood supply here. We can do a transfusion.”

Natasha makes a noncommittal sound. Jordan’s blood type makes him an ideal donor, but finding blood for him will be more difficult. She also chooses not to point out that Jordan has suffered massive blood loss, and that even if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, the chances of his wounds becoming infected are quite high. And that’s assuming he hasn’t been infected with AS-81. If he has, his chances of survival are essentially _nul_. She knows that Clint knows these things; he just has a strange affinity to optimism for someone in his line of work. Natasha does not.

He turns, and Natasha sucks in her breath. “Clint.” She seems to be experiencing tachycardia, a distant part of her brain notes. _A rapid heartbeat can be caused by an abnormal heart condition, disease, hyperthyroidism, strenuous exercise, desire, stress, or anxiety._

“What?” Clint looks at himself. Then he sees what she sees: a mottled mark on the inside of his right elbow, just below his bicep. It has the rough shape of a horseshoe. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and neither does she. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is steady. “You shouldn’t be around me. They have a containment room. Lock me in there.”

Natasha knows she should say something comforting, but the words are trapped in her throat. Her lips feel oddly numb. She’s rooted to the spot.

“Tasha,” Clint says, “quit looking at me like that.”

What she’s feeling must be written all over her face. Natasha struggles to regain her normal equilibrium.

He brushes past her on his way out the door. “Come on,” he urges.

Compelling her legs to move, she spares one last glance at the pale Jordan, then turns to catch up with Clint.

Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

//\\\

“I’m going to be sick.”

Natasha adjusted the straw of her refreshing frozen lemonade and took a sip. “No one forced you to eat the world’s largest churro.”

Barton turned a green-tinged scowl on her. “Not helpful, Nat.” She had expressed her distaste for diminutives of her name several times, in several ways, but her partner of just over a year so far hadn’t taken the hints.

Barton stopped walking, which forced Natasha to stop as well. His eyes were closed, and he looked positively nauseated.

Not particularly keen on having puke on her shoes – this was supposed to be the two of them enjoying some time off, and she put up with that sort of thing quite enough on the job, thank you very much (though not usually from Barton) – Natasha took pity on him and pointed out the nearby men’s room. Barton handed her his wraparounds and took off for it at a healthy pace.

Truthfully, she did feel a bit sorry for him. The Steel Hawg wasn’t for everyone. She loved the thrill of a good roller coaster, and Barton... did not. Obviously it wasn’t the heights that had a negative effect on him; it was probably the corkscrew turns and extreme freefall (the Steel Hawg boasted a 111° drop – steepest in the States) that made you feel that your stomach was suspended above your head.

Natasha had to give him credit, though. They’d just finished up a job near Monticello, Indiana, and though she could see the hesitation on his face when she’d brought up the possibility of visiting Indiana Beach, he’d agreed readily. Up until this point, the occasional after-hours outings they’d gone on since becoming partners had all been instigated by him, and she knew he was happy she’d suggested something, even if it wasn’t an activity he particularly enjoyed.

As a girl Natasha had never been to an amusement park, and when she’d gotten a bit older there had only been two occasions she’d had cause to visit one, once to follow a mark, then again to do reconnaissance; never just for fun. The first time she’d ever been on a roller coaster had been when she’d started freelancing. Her time had finally been her own, as much as it had ever been at that point, and she’d indulged her childhood desires. She’d expected it to be a letdown, like so many things that are anticipated but that never quite meet one’s expectations, but to her surprise, it was every bit as enjoyable as she’d always imagined. She’d stayed at the amusement park all day, riding all the roller coasters by herself, basking in the wind that whipped her hair around her face, the screams of joy around her, the terrifying sensation of falling coupled with the certainty of being caught.

She wasn’t sure why she’d suggested going to an amusement park with Barton. She could have easily just gone on her own. They’d finished the job early and had some downtime before they were expected back on the Helicarrier. Barton had probably been looking forward to unwinding at a bar near the Promenade that O’Keefe had recommended at length, picking up some woman and doing whatever he did with them – not that it took a lot of imagination, but Natasha had never asked and never checked up on him, and he had never brought them back to their hotel, which she appreciated for professional reasons. That was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, and appreciated – Barton might be a bit unorthodox, a bit irreverent, and a lot sarcastic, but when it came to the job he was a consummate professional.

Her normally nonchalant partner was looking slightly worse for wear when he reappeared from the restrooms. Barton had lost the verdigris sheen, however, so that was a good thing. What wasn’t a good thing was that it had been replaced by a shade of ash. She hoped he’d recover quickly. Natasha didn’t particularly relish having to explain to Coulson why SHIELD’s star sniper was suddenly ill after a mission that went completely by the book.

Natasha handed Barton his sunglasses. He put them on, masking most of the sickly look.

“I think the exit’s this way,” Natasha said, gesturing.

“Excuse me,” Barton said, taking the amusement park map out of his back pocket. “I believe _I_ am the navigator of this ill-conceived expedition.” He studied it for a moment. “Aha! I see something more my speed.” He pointed.

Natasha leaned over to look. “Kiddy Land?” Her lips quirked in amusement. “We can just go, Barton.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “I’m fine. I’ll just sit out the next couple of rides. My stomach needs a little time to adjust, that’s all. It’s gotten complacent after all these years, just staying in one place.”

She looked at him askance. “I don’t mind being by myself. You don’t have to stick around.” Natasha thought of the bar at the Promenade, the unknown woman. “Really.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” He deliberately inserted a note of hurt into his voice, so obvious it made her roll her eyes. “I have one moment of weakness and you’re going to cut me loose? Is that how it’s gonna be?”

It was a mystery to Natasha why he’d want to stay, but clearly he was going to, so she gave in. “Just don’t hold me back, Barton.”

He grinned. A wan effort, but still effective. “Tasha, if I ever hold you back, you have my blessing to leave me behind.” He slung a friendly arm around her shoulders.

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “I think I’m going to need that in writing.” She snatched the map out of his hands. “Also, it’s my turn to navigate.”

//\\\

The break room is like every other break room in every office building in the world. There are square tables and cheap chairs, a vending machine, a sparse kitchenette, a lumpy old sofa, and a white refrigerator. Natasha first checks the cupboards, finding paper plates, plastic utensils, coffee, a can of chili, half-eaten bags of tortilla chips and pretzels, and a couple of boxes of mac and cheese that are long past their expiration dates. Can powdered cheese actually expire? She’s fairly certain it will outlast them all.

She saves the fridge for last. A couple of lunch bags contain sandwiches, an apple, celery sticks, a chocolate chip cookie, and a cup of vanilla pudding. There’s also three cans of soda, string cheese, an orange, a nearly empty bottle of salsa, and a white rectangular carton stained with orange grease. Opening it reveals someone’s leftover lasagna. Natasha sniffs it, and it smells okay, so she puts everything else back and divides the lasagna onto two plates. As she nukes the pasta, she pours Coke into two Dixie cups.

Carrying the tray, Natasha makes her way back upstairs and checks in on Jordan. He woke a bit earlier and she gave him some more antibiotics and set up an IV, but he’s unconscious now, sweat beading his brow. She’ll have to change his bandages again later, and will try to get him to drink some water. She continues on to the clean room where they’ve installed Clint. It’s fairly self-contained, with its own bathroom, sink, medical supply cabinet, and even a small refrigerator. He’d figured out the intercom system and made it so that it’s always on, and they can hear and speak to one another almost like normal. The walls of the enclosed room are made entirely of glass, so she can see that right now he’s lying on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, part of the lurid mark on his arm made visible when he shifts slightly at her approach.

“What is it today, Warden?” Clint says. “Not gruel again. Anything but gruel.”

“Leftover lasagna,” Natasha says. “If you don’t like it, you can book a room at the Four Seasons.” She opens the slot in the door and places the tray of lasagna, Coke, wedges of half an orange, and a paperback book inside, on the small platform that divides the slot on her side of the door from the slot on his side. In this way, as the engineers intended, Natasha can transfer materials to Clint with minimal exposure to herself or vice versa. She takes her own food and moves a few feet down, sitting in front of the glass.

Clint swings off the bed to retrieve the food (he tosses the book onto the stand next to the bed) and sits down on the floor facing her, despite the fact that there’s a bed and a chair in the room.

They eat in silence for a little while, Natasha surreptitiously studying him in between bites for signs of physical deterioration. She doesn’t find any. She’s distracted when Clint points his plastic fork at her plate. “Yours looks bigger than mine.”

“You eat twice as fast as I do,” Natasha says.

“Is there enough food?” Clint asks, accepting this explanation, and resumes eating.

“It’ll be fine. It won’t be gourmet dining.” Natasha bites into a wedge of orange. It’s juicy but not sweet; she eats it anyway. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not at death’s door, if that’s what you’re asking. Maybe his driveway. If he had one of those really long, sloping ones with big gates at the end.”

Natasha grimaces. She should have known better than to ask the question and expect a serious answer.

“It could be my last night on earth, though. Wanna grant a dying wish?” Clint waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly. She pointedly ignores this.

“I found blood for you,” Natasha offers finally, emphasizing the last word just a tad. “Three units. And 50 ccs of the AS-81 ‘antidote’ they were working on.”

“Well, that’s not enough blood,” Clint comments, sounding casual, as if he were talking about change for the soda machine. “Not enough for both me and Jordan.”

“I know,” Natasha says. Ideally, Clint would undergo two blood transfusions a day. For the duration of the quarantine he’ll need six units; right now they have three. The facility has more blood, but none Clint can use – including Natasha’s. His blood type precludes it.

“They’re O neg? Give them to Jordan.”

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She wants to reason with Clint, to explain that giving Jordan this blood is a waste, considering the other man’s injuries. It’ll do more good in Clint’s veins than the other man’s. But she knows he won’t listen, that he’ll insist on giving the other man the precious few units of blood she’s found, regardless of the detriment to his own chances. He might even refuse to give himself a transfusion.

“Don’t worry about Jordan, I’ve already set him up,” Natasha says. She doesn’t like lying to Clint, but she wants to get off the topic of Jordan as quickly as possible. Clint should be focusing on his own recovery. Talking about Jordan also makes her uncomfortable because something’s been percolating in her mind that she isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet. “I’ll keep looking.”

Clint finishes the last of his orange wedges, staring at the peels as if lost in thought. Then he stands abruptly. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, tossing the remnants of his meal into the trash. He turns his back on her and enters the adjoining bathroom. Natasha hears the water come on.

She knows it’s his way of telling her he wants to be alone, but she stays awhile anyway, her fingers turning sticky from the orange, listening to the rhythm of the water as Clint moves under it.

She leaves before it turns off.

//\\\

Natasha stepped out of the shower, cursing Barton’s name as the pounding continued at her door. She briefly considered answering it naked, knowing it’d put him completely off his stride. However, despite his various annoying tendencies, she actually valued their partnership, and she didn’t think it was ready for nudity quite yet. At least not when neither of them were bleeding. She wrapped a towel around herself and went to the door.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he announced, walking right in without even looking at her. He didn’t seem to notice that she was nearly naked, or that water droplets were still clinging to her skin, evidence that she’d obviously had to leave the shower in a hurry. She wasn’t sure who she was more annoyed with – Barton for not acknowledging that he could be an inconsiderate ass, or herself for being ever so slightly put out that her notorious feminine wiles apparently didn’t do a thing for him.

“I was taking a shower,” Natasha said coolly.

Barton set down two laden plastic bags on top of the cheap wooden dresser and started unpacking them. “It’s okay, I’ll wait,” he said cheerfully.

Scowling at the back of his spiky brown head, Natasha brought a change of clothes with her into the bathroom, closing the door with an irritated snap. Not that he’d notice. She dressed quickly in a pair of loose cotton pants and a soft t-shirt, standard sleepwear for her. She considered wearing a bra, given Barton’s presence, but opted for a pullover instead. It would hide evidence of chilliness or other things. She brushed out her wet hair, and when her stomach made a low gurgling sound, she realized she was hungry. Natasha left the bathroom, a bit of leftover steam following her out.

Barton was watching television. He’d propped up the pillows on the bed so he could lean against the headboard more comfortably. Natasha bit back the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of her tongue. He’d _always_ been overly familiar, ever since they’d met. He didn’t seem to have the same boundaries that other people had. She was well aware of the fact that she wasn’t as demonstrative as “normal” people, but she’d been around enough of them to know that Barton was an anomaly himself. Being so different, it was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other yet.

No... it was a wonder _she_ hadn’t killed _him_ yet.

“What’d you get?” Natasha asked, making her way over to the food. It smelled pretty good.

Barton looked up and grinned. “Finally! I’m starving.” He rolled off the bed and joined her.

“What _is_ all this?” Natasha peeked under one of the aluminum-clad plates.

“What do you take me for? We’re in southern California, so obviously I got Mexican.” Barton unceremoniously began to take the aluminum tops of all the plates, revealing a massive amount of food.

“We’re not going to be able to finish all this,” Natasha said in astonishment.

“I couldn’t decide what to get, so I got some of everything,” Barton said unrepentantly. “Just eat, would you?” He handed her an empty plate and a bottle of Jarritos grapefruit soda, selecting mandarin orange for himself.

Natasha’s stomach contracted again, so she didn’t question further. She piled her plate with the delicious-smelling offerings and took it over to the small table in the corner of the room. She thought Barton might attempt to eat on her bed while watching television, but apparently he knew her peeves well enough by this point that he joined her at the table instead.

She began with a verde chicken tamale that was moist and fragrant. It was the best tamale she’d ever had. Barton wolfed down a huge burrito that looked packed to the gills with filling, and for a while the only sounds in the room consisted of noise from the TV and munching from the two assassins. Barton went for a tortilla chip at the same time Natasha did, and when their hands collided he quickly pulled back, as if she’d burned his fingers. Natasha would have been irritated by the reaction if she hadn’t seen his eyes dart unconsciously toward the bed. She suppressed a smile and pretended not to notice, nabbing a chip and scooping up a generous amount of guacamole with it.

She couldn’t decide what to eat next, but finally settled on a small corn tortilla that was topped with diced meat, cilantro, and onion. She opened a small container of pico de gallo and drizzled some of the red sauce on top, followed by a squeeze of a wedge of lime that Barton produced from a paper sack.

“Uh.”

Natasha looked up just as she was about to take a bite. “ _What_?” she asked irritably.

“That’s – you should probably know, that’s lengua.” Barton looked at her expectantly.

Without breaking eye contact, Natasha slowly bit into the taco. It was pure heaven. The meat was tender and juicy – she was Russian, and an orphan, and had known what it was to go hungry. She’d eaten far worse things than tongue, which as far as she was concerned was just another muscle (a delicious one), seasoned just right, with toppings that were the perfect complement. She gave a little food-happy moan.

“Wow, so it’s really good then,” Barton said with comically large eyes.

Natasha picked up another warm tortilla chip, and when her knee accidentally pressed against his under the table, the feel of him solid and comforting, she didn’t move it away. “Shut up and eat, would you?”

//\\\

Natasha sleeps badly on the couch in the break room, waking too many times, reaching for the gun under the cushions. There’s not a living soul in the small building except herself and Clint – maybe Jordan, if he survived the night – she canvassed it thoroughly yesterday. Still, there’s an apprehension she can’t shake, and usually when she feels this way it’s nothing she can’t solve with a bullet. This time it’s different. She wishes she had something to shoot, rather than this specter of dread, hovering unseen.

In one of the bathrooms she splashes water on her face, trying to shake the feeling. Her eyes look larger than normal in her drawn face. She’s found some disposable toiletries, but what she could really use is some lip balm. She’ll probably have to settle for petroleum jelly.

Six units of blood. That’s what Clint needs. She’d found three; he’s already used two. Not for the first time, Natasha laments the fact that she can’t give him hers; that would be the best and most expedient solution. She’s searched high and low, but there are only so many places blood can be stored to remain viable for transfusion. She’ll look again today.

Natasha goes to check on Clint. Last night he’d only eaten half of his dinner. Granted, slightly mushy ham sandwiches with pretzels isn’t the most appetizing thing in the world, but she’s seen Clint eat worse. His lack of appetite is a little worrisome, but maybe it’s psychological rather than physiological. No one would blame him for feeling a little depressed.

He’s still sleeping, his eyelashes looking very dark against his increasingly pale skin. The bedcovers are partially thrown off, his arms are bare, and the U-shaped mark is as vivid as ever, an ugly reminder of why he’s in there and she’s out here. She watches him breathe in his sleep – is it her imagination or is it more labored than usual?

Though part of her wants to just stay with Clint until he wakes, she goes to Jordan’s room. Neither she nor the other agent exhibited symptoms of being infected with the AS-81 virus within an hour of exposure, so as far as that goes, they’re in the clear. Unfortunately, in Jordan’s case, that’s not going to matter much. Natasha’s only potential for being infected now comes from Clint, but they’ve done everything they can to prevent that from coming to pass.

She stands in the doorway and determines that Jordan is still alive – miraculously. Clint had been right to be optimistic. But eventually, she’ll be right, too. Jordan’s wounds are not survivable; not in this situation. With the amount of blood he’s lost and the lack of viable blood they can spare, it’s only a matter of time.

Natasha doesn’t believe in fate, but she can’t help but feel that the fact he’s made it this long is a sign. She finally gives weight to the thought that’s been hovering just under the surface of her consciousness, ever since she first saw the mark the AS-81 virus had imprinted on Clint’s arm.

Jordan could have died in the night, but he hadn’t. His being uninfected, and having O negative blood, and somehow living through the injuries he’s sustained would be useful. If he’d died, his blood would have only been good for a short amount of time. Now... Jordan could actually save Clint.

If there’s a heaven, Natasha’s not going there; that’s she’s sure of. Too many people have had their last moments at her hands, too many fathers, daughters, siblings, friends, lovers. Karmically she owes the universe, and she’s never going to be able to fully pay it back, but she owes a debt and she won’t shy away from it. She’s done a lot of bad in the world, but in the last five years she’s done her share of good, too, and this would be an act of good. The world needs its Clints. Keeping Clint alive will do a lot of people a lot of good. He deserves to live.

And in a ledger like hers, what’s one more line of crimson?

Natasha slowly makes her way over to the bed where Jordan is breathing shallowly. They are the breaths of a dying man; she’s been around enough of them to know.

She pauses when Jordan opens his eyes and looks at her, face wan. He seems unsurprised to see her. “Was wondering when you’d come around,” he says, barely speaking above a rasp. His eyes tell her that he knows why she’s there.

It isn’t like Natasha to hesitate once she’s set on a course of action. Nothing will change her mind, barring something extraordinary, but Jordan isn’t in any condition to put up a fight, and in fact, he seems strangely sanguine about what she’s going to do, has put it together quickly. He’s exhibiting surprising perception and clarity for someone who’s lost so much blood.

“What does he need?” Jordan asks.

“Three units,” Natasha answers.

Jordan doesn’t react visibly, even though he must know what that means. “Well, go ahead. What are you waiting for?” His breathing is shallow. “I guess I’m flattered it took you this long to get to it.”

Natasha has nothing to say to this, so she remains silent. 

“Will this save Hawkeye?”

Something sticks in her throat, and it takes her a moment to respond. “I don’t know.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

“It’ll give him more of a chance.”

“Will it? Didn’t figure you for an optimist, Romanoff.” Jordan says this without scorn, and given his condition she would probably deserve it, so the words make an impact they otherwise wouldn’t. Natasha feels something snake in her stomach, the words trying to penetrate, but she can’t let them, not yet.

“Ah well, we all gotta go sometime,” Jordan rasps. “If it’s my time, might as well go out helping a fellow agent, right?”

“You’re a good teammate,” Natasha says, and from her it’s high praise.

“Are you going to file this in the report?”

“Of course,” she responds automatically. “They’ll support my decision.”

A ghost of a smile indicates Jordan’s acknowledgement. “No doubt they will, even if Barton doesn’t make it.”

It takes more effort than it should not to respond that Clint _is_ going to make it, that there is no alternative. Instead, she starts preparing what she’ll need for the simple procedure that may save one man while it pushes another into an inevitable fate.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, and Jordan closes his eyes one last time.


	3. Chapter 3

//\\\

“Let’s see, I’ve got dry toast and two eggs poached medium for the young lady, and for you I’ve got three fried eggs, a ham steak, two sausage links, hash browns, a stack of Jimmy’s finest cakes, and maple syrup, all warmed up.”

“Thanks, Sue,” Clint said, ignoring Natasha’s look and tucking into his meal right away. He ate as though he hadn’t seen food in a week.

“That’s not really maple syrup, you know,” Natasha said, watching Clint pour essentially the entire contents of the jug over his enormous mound of pancakes.

“Mmm, artificial flavoring, just like Mom used to make,” he replied.

The ooze of the thick, sugary stuff as it found all the crevices in the pancakes was mesmerizing. “Are you sure?” Natasha was changing the subject, but she knew Clint would know she was no longer talking about pancake syrup.

“I’m sure.”

“You really want to go to Tombstone.”

“It’s going to be awesome, Tasha. You’ll see.” Clint cut off a large wedge of pancake with his fork, then speared a chunk of breakfast sausage and ate them together with relish.

“Vegas is the same distance away.”

“We’ve been to Vegas.”

“But think of the glorious tawdriness! The half-naked showgirls! The magicians! The _buffets_.” Natasha was hoping she’d hit on something Clint wouldn’t be able to say no to. She really, really had no desire to spend an entire day visiting some old boomtown of the Wild West. She had in mind the Bellagio. Champagne. Decent pillows. Bathtubs with jets.

Nothing was working. There was a set to Clint’s jaw that said, “Tombstone or bust.” Natasha resigned herself to dust in her hair and buffalo-themed antiques. It was her own fault, really. She’d told him he could pick where they would go for their next excursion. She’d been feeling generous after they’d finished their last job in the town of Wickenburg unexpectedly early. They’d gotten an official commendation from Fury. That was worth something.

Certainly something more than Tombstone, Arizona.

“Consider all the unsuspecting assholes with money to burn, waiting for you at the poker tables,” she tried again. “And all the loose women at the craps tables just dying to blow your dice.”

“Ooh, you play dirty,” Clint rejoined, looking completely untantalized, to Natasha’s disappointment. “But my mind’s made up. It’ll be _fun_ , Tash. Just give it a chance!”

“Give me the car keys.”

“What?” Clint’s hand drifted involuntarily to the keys in his pocket, clutching them a little more tightly.

“You want to go to Tombstone, I’m driving,” she said flatly.

“But...” He looked torn.

Natasha knew Clint loved driving the new Porsche Cayman in their possession; it had been part of their cover story and they still had it for another two days. But even more than that, he was the one with the gift of operating vehicles. He loved it almost as much as he loved archery.

Apparently he was dead set on Tombstone, however, because while he handed over the keys reluctantly, he _did_ hand them over. Natasha took them from him and smiled at his scowl.

Clint gulped coffee and waved at Sue for a fresh refill. “Now _this_ is coffee. Be right back.” He got up, heading for the restrooms.

When he’d disappeared behind one of the doors, Natasha reached over and took his cup, taking a sip. She put it down so Sue could refill it. _That_ was how he enjoyed his coffee? Disgusting. Her partner had no taste, in coffee or relaxation spots.

Of course, she didn’t have to go to Tombstone with him. She could contact Coulson and get back to HQ early. Or she could go to Vegas on her own if she really wanted to. Or hell, anywhere else.

Natasha picked up her fork and sank it into the soft, drenched stack of pancakes, helping herself to a bite. She wanted to hate it, but the truth was that the buttery sweet mouthful tasted heavenly.

“I _saw_ that, Romanoff,” Clint said, sliding back into his side of the booth.

“Glad that sniper sight isn’t going to waste,” she replied, unconcerned with being caught.

The next time Sue passed by, Natasha ordered two pancakes for herself. She’d need the energy for the drive to southern Arizona.

//\\\

When Natasha arrives at the clean room on the morning of the last day of their incarceration with some breakfast, Clint’s moving the furniture around. She’s not sure why he’s expending the energy. He’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort.

“Redecorating?” she asks, opening the slot on the door so she can slide the tray through. She closes the slot immediately afterward.

“Something like that,” Clint says, going over to open the slot on his side.

Natasha notices he’s breathing harder than such little exercise would require for a man in his shape. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hard. “Maybe you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” she points out. “You should be resting. Quarantine will break any time now.” It can’t come fast enough. She’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom last night.

“Yeah, well, I’m going stir crazy in here. I had to do something.” Clint pulls out the tray and makes a face at what’s on it. “You made coffee? What, I’m not dying fast enough for you?”

Natasha doesn’t particularly feel like joking about death; his in particular. She knows it’s his way of dealing with what’s happening to him, but she just can’t bring herself to reciprocate. Using humor to mask deeper fears isn’t her thing, but over time she’s gotten used to Clint’s methods and been able to insert a rejoinder or two of her own, occasionally. This isn’t one of those times.

“Did you do a transfusion this morning?” she asks instead. She’d given him a few more units of blood, saying that she’d found them in an unused lab. She’d held her breath, waiting for him to see through the lie, waiting for him to bring up Jordan, but he hadn’t.

Clint inclines his head. “Yeah. Did it earlier when I couldn’t sleep. How’s Jordan?”

“He’s tougher than he looks,” Natasha says. She has no intention of upsetting Clint at this stage.

“He’s in good company, then,” Clint says, grinning at her, but it lacks its usual wattage. His eyes are rimmed red and his lips are pale.

“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” She hates nagging, has never seen herself in any role in which she’d have the right or desire to nag, has always believed that everyone should make their own choices and it isn’t up to anyone else to determine whether those choices are right or wrong... but Clint has a knack for making her behave out of character.

“Maybe later,” he says, pacing over to the other side of his temporary cage and dropping down to sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, his back to the glass wall.

Natasha reflects that she should have gone with vanilla pudding and the chocolate chip cookie, rather than the apple and string cheese. The unhealthier selections might’ve done a better job of tempting his depleted appetite.

She follows him on her side of the glass, sinking down to the ground also. They’re back to back, and she tells herself that she can feel his body heat, but she knows it’s just residual memory from the times they’ve been in this position before. Still, it’s familiar and comforting in its own way.

“When was the last time you had an injection of the antidote?” she asks.

“Christ, Nat, would you give it a rest?” Clint sounds more tired than irritated, though there’s certainly a bit of that as well.

Natasha bites back the retort. She doesn’t want to fight with him. There will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s well again.

They sit in silence for a while. Clint breaks it with:

“What do you think they’ll do with my stuff?”

Natasha stiffens, now glad they aren’t actually back-to-back, or Clint would have noticed. She turns her head slightly to see if she can catch his expression, but he’s staring straight ahead, and she can’t see his face. “What do you mean?”

“When I’m gone,” Clint says, sounding matter-of-fact. “What happens to my stuff?”

“Not something anyone has to worry about for a long time,” Natasha replies firmly, voice steady. She’s proud of how even it sounds, considering her heart feels like a hummingbird’s.

Clint lets out a chuckle, but it’s the least mirthful sound she’s ever heard. “I kept putting off filling out my ‘In the event of,’ you know? I told myself I just didn’t have time, it’s always one assignment after another. And who was I going to leave my shit to, Barney?” He scoffs, then continues quietly, “But really – it’s that I thought I was invincible.”

Natasha’s throat feels dry. She knows what he’s talking about, that feeling of invincibility. She knows it’s not true, that despite their unusual skills, at the end of the day all they are is breakable bone and fragile flesh. It’s just that sometimes, when she and Clint are in the midst of a firefight, it feels like there’s nothing in the world that can stop them, not even mortality. But as for a will... She’s never considered one because she has no children or known relatives, so what would be the point?

“Ironic, right, given what we do? Coulson would hound me about it from time to time. What’s it to him, I’d like to know. He’s not getting his hands on my 1969 Willie Mays, no matter what he thinks. He’s always telling me how well he takes care of those Captain America trading cards of his, trying to win me over–”

“Stop it.”

“Hell, maybe I will give Coulson that card after all,” Clint muses, ignoring her. “At least it’ll be with someone who appreciates it.”

“Just shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit about a baseball card,” Natasha says, and she hears the harshness in her tone, in her words, but she can’t take it back. Her back feels stiffer than the glass she’s leaning against.

“Don’t be mad,” Clint murmurs. “I’ll leave you my baby. My pride and joy. I’ve seen you look at it longingly.”

Natasha laughs, but it comes out sounding strange, as if her throat’s been rubbed raw. “I don’t want your goddamned bow, Clint.”

“You’re the only one I’d trust to use it correctly.” His voice has gotten so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear him.

She knows it’s the best compliment Clint could ever give another person, but she still doesn’t want to hear it. “Clint, I’m telling you, shut up.” She waits for his next retort, but it doesn’t come. “Clint?” Natasha turns at his lack of response. Dread claws its way up her throat at what she sees: Her partner is still leaning against the glass, but is unnaturally inert. His body has slumped and is no longer supporting itself; his right hand is on the floor, palm up.

“Clint!” Natasha shouts, slamming her palm against the glass. _He’s only passed out,_ she tells herself. _He’s fine. Just wake him up._

But he makes no movement whatsoever. Her shouts and pounding seem to have zero effect.

 _Passing out so quickly is a likely sign he’s succumbing to the virus,_ her mind recites clinically. “No,” Natasha says numbly. She doesn’t understand how this can be happening. The antidote was supposed to help keep him stable. He’s been doing well. _He never answered you about whether he took an injection recently_ , her brain reminds her. _Maybe he forgot._ But Natasha knows, with complete certainty, that Clint didn’t forget. If he hadn’t taken the injection, it’d been a conscious choice. He’d known the survival rate of people infected with AS-81 was low, and even amongst those who had been cured, many were not the same, mentally or physically, afterward. But those people hadn’t had SHIELD or its resources and biochem division. All they’d had were some low-rate butchers masquerading as men of science.

She runs to the door, her brain pointing out with cold precision that going into the clean room will only endanger herself without any significant improvement in Clint’s chances for survival. She would be risking her own life, and the lives of everyone she could help as an agent of SHIELD, by exposing herself to the AS-81 virus. Natasha’s brain quickly conducts the cost/benefit analysis of exposing herself, taking into account everything from Clint’s own skills to the fact that they’re nearing the end of the required 72-hour quarantine, to the fact that there’s little she can actually do for him.

Natasha knows that when they look at her, what SHIELD sees, what her former handlers saw, is a world-class assassin, trained from adolescence to mete out death and destruction quickly and efficiently. But Natasha knows that what she is foremost is a survivor. She has done what she’s had to do, withstood odds that would have been insurmountable for most people, in order to be here today, living tissue and breath and blood. If she’s good at being an assassin, it’s because her will is stronger than any opponent she’s ever faced.

Rationally, she knows that there’s nothing she can do for Clint. She’s not a doctor; she’s not a scientist. She _lives_. That’s what she’s good at doing. And that skill will not help Clint. Running into the clean room will only put her life in jeopardy with no gain that logic can take into account.

She knows these facts. When weighing all the available variables, the conclusion is obvious – quickly and easily drawn, with no room for equivocation: She should not risk exposing herself.

“Clint!” Natasha throws her weight against the door, but it won’t budge. She notices for the first time that in moving the furniture, he’s positioned one of the chairs in such a way that it’s blocking the door, making it impossible to turn the knob. _Why didn’t I notice that earlier?_ she thinks wildly. _Why didn’t I notice that earlier?_ The answer is patently obvious. She’d been too concerned about his welfare to make the usual observations she would have normally made. Her affection for him had overridden common sense, had compromised her caution. “Goddammit, Clint, get up! Move this chair!”

He’d planned for this. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared in advance. He’d been more prepared than she had been. Natasha doesn’t know what’s more alarming, the fact that she’s been taken by surprise, or the fact that some part of her hadn’t prepared for the worst, hadn’t really prepared for this eventuality. But Clint had. He’d known from the start.

“ _Clint!_ “ Natasha knows it’s futile, that she’s not strong enough to break through the barrier he’s created, that she’s going to dislocate her shoulder if she continues. She knows this, but she crashes against the door again and again, ignoring logic, ignoring pain, ignoring everything but the fact that her partner is just beyond this door, dying. Without her. Natasha can taste salt in her mouth, knows it’s from sweat, and tears, and though Clint is hardly moving, she says his name over and over again, as if somehow this will enable him to find the strength to get up and move the chair so she can get in.

It’s moving. Only a tiny increment at a time, but it’s moving. Eventually the chair gives, scraping against the floor and falling over, and Natasha runs into the room. She immediately goes to Clint, feeling for a pulse in his throat. She finds it. It’s thready, but enough to help subside some of her panic. Her heart beating hard against her ribcage, Natasha quickly locates the antidote. She efficiently prepares the needle, suppressing the emotion that threatens to release, willing her mind to be clear and her hands to be steady. They are; she’s proud of that, and she has the injection ready in a matter of seconds. _It’s too late,_ her brain says. _There’s nothing that can be done. This is a bandage on a gushing wound. You’ve risked everything for nothing._ Natasha crouches down next to Clint and stabs the needle into his arm.

This seems to rouse him; Clint opens his eyes and sees her hovering over him. A dawn of recognition. “Nat, no...” he whispers. “Get out of here...” He moves to get away from her, but he’s too weak and she holds him down easily.

“ _Zatknis_ ,” Natasha snaps. “Shut up, you selfish bastard. How _dare_ you do this.”

He mutters something in response, something about going out on his own terms, but he stops trying to push her away. She takes his hand and clasps it with her own. His is hot and dry, callused from years of handling his bow.

“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not going to do this. You’ll live to annoy me on countless missions to come. I’m not done with you yet.” To her horror, her voice cracks on the last two words. She tries to get herself under control, tries to rein it in and bury it deep as she always does. But then she feels him squeeze her hand – just the slightest pressure, but she feels it – and she gives in. Natasha lets the tears flow freely from her eyes, releasing the crushing emotion that’s been building in her chest. And oddly, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It just feels like relief.

She doesn’t know how long she stays in that position, holding Clint’s hand. She can’t feel her knees or her feet anymore. Her eyes feel swollen and tight. She can see the slight rise and fall of Clint’s chest so she knows he’s still there. She almost wants to lie down next to him – she’s not going to be able to carry him back to the bed – but then her honed sense of hearing picks up the sound of footsteps. Natasha’s sidearm is in her hand in less than a second.

A figure in a hazmat suit stands in the doorway, taking in the shambles. Coulson’s eyes immediately settle on Clint.

“He’s alive,” Natasha says, almost rebelliously.

Coulson nods, and she hears him convey their location to the emergency medical team. They arrive quickly, checking Clint’s vitals before loading him onto a hyperbaric stretcher. Natasha starts after them, but Coulson stops her with a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Agent Romanoff,” he says, with the same lack of inflection she’s used to from him, but his eyes are kind behind the mask.

Natasha knows she’s going to be put through a battery of tests, may even be quarantined again. But at least it will be with SHIELD’s supervision. She’ll get regular reports on Clint’s condition, Coulson will see to it. Assuming her partner makes it.

“He’ll be okay,” Coulson says, unnervingly reading her mind. “Fury won’t let him off the hook that easily.”


	4. Chapter 4

//\\\

It was the middle of the night for most everyone else, but it was morning for them. The hotel bar was full of businessmen, high-class prostitutes, and 20-somethings playing at being sophisticated.

They had staked out a small table in the middle of the bar. Clint had ordered a red eye, then gone back up to the room to double check on their equipment – or more specifically, to make sure his favorite scope hadn’t been damaged by the careless bellhop. They were in Utah on a reconnaissance mission – SHIELD had gotten rumblings of a group of extremists who were particularly obsessed with biological warfare. Apparently, they’d been able to recruit a number of scientists who were working on a virus known only as AS-81; its specific effects were still to be determined.

Natasha’s orange juice arrived first. She accepted it with a Black Widow smile, which came automatically because she was wearing a slinky violet dress slit up to the thigh – basically a uniform of her alter ego. Unfortunately both the smile and the dress had done their jobs too well; she had just taken a sip of her drink when a man in a well-tailored charcoal suit took the seat opposite her. His head of salt-and-pepper hair was full and styled tastefully, and his smile was friendly, not smarmy.

“You looked a bit lonely,” was his opening gambit. “I hope you don’t mind?”

Impatience flickered in her veins and her thigh rig (on the side that didn’t have the slit) itched, but Natasha kept her expression neutral. “Just waiting for my husband,” she said coolly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clint enter the room. He spotted her at the same time and his eyebrows rose when he caught sight of the fact that she had company.

Her companion chuckled. “Of course. I should have known. Lucky man.” She saw his eyes zero in on the fact that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he didn’t comment. “I’m Lee, by the way.”

Natasha shook his hand even as she sighed inwardly. The lack of a ring had likely convinced him that she wasn’t actually married, just trying to give him the brush off, so now he’d redouble his efforts in order to convince her that he was worth her while. “Allison,” she said. Clint’s expression indicated that he’d take off if she was occupied by choice. She shook her head and tried to send the message _Get your ass over here_ telepathically.

Lee was doing his best to be engaging – and he was; if Natasha were a different woman she’d count herself lucky to be hit on by an attractive, obviously successful, and charming man, but she wasn’t a different woman, and she had a job to do. She made small talk with Lee for as long as it took Clint to reach the table. His red eye arrived at the same time.

“Here’s your coffee, sir,” the waiter said somewhat awkwardly, looking from Clint to the man who was sitting in the seat Clint had vacated not too long ago. He set down the drink and departed.

“Oh honey, _there_ you are,” Natasha fairly gushed. “This is Lee, he was just telling me about all the great sights to catch while we’re in Chicago.”

Lee got up swiftly, a dull red flush creeping up his neck as he realized that Natasha had, in fact, been telling the truth – as far as he knew, anyway. “Hi,” he said, offering Clint his hand. “Your wife’s a lovely woman.”

“I know,” Clint replied in a friendly way, not losing a beat. They weren’t posing as a married couple in their official cover story, but he didn’t blink. He shook the other man’s hand gamely. “Let me tell you, the day she said yes was the brightest day an ordinary guy like me could ever hope to have. When I asked her father—” He suppressed a slight yelp as Natasha’s stiletto caressed his wing-tip loafers. _Laying it on a bit thick_ was the message. “Anyway, thanks for the tips about the city. I’m sure we’ll put them to good use.”

“Great, I hope you do. Excuse me. It was nice to meet you,” Lee directed toward Natasha.

“Likewise,” said Natasha, not sorry to see the back of him.

Clint sat down and reached for the cream, a slight smirk on his face. “Can’t leave you alone for a second.”

Natasha ignored this. “Everything in order?”

“Yep, scope was fine. He seemed all right,” Clint said, clearly not ready to give up on the other topic. “Not your type?”

“We’re working,” Natasha reminded him, pushing the sugar cubes in his direction.

“We have an hour. I would have made myself scarce if you’d wanted to get to know him better.” He seemed to be fishing for something, but she didn’t know what.

“Nope.” Natasha studied her partner. Lee might have looked good in his charcoal suit, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Clint in his tailored gray suit and midnight blue dress shirt. Clint had chosen to go tieless, and Natasha found herself staring at the smooth, tanned skin of his clavicle.

“I suppose he is a bit _distinguished_ ,” Clint said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“What?” She raised her eyes to meet his, which were crinkled in amusement.

“He’s too old for you,” Clint elucidated bluntly.

Lee could have been only a year or two older than Clint himself. “No, he’s not,” Natasha said swiftly, a little surprised by the vehemence of her own denial. “Physical age is only a small, insignificant element when determining compatibility.”

“Awww, I didn’t figure you for a sentimentalist. Are you saying it’s about how old two people are at heart?” Clint smiled, teeth flashing white. “In that case, we could be a perfect match, Tash.”

Natasha ignored the weird twinge in her chest. “Are you kidding me?” she retorted. “If that were true, you’d be way too young for me.”

Clint scooted his chair closer to hers and draped his arm across the back of her seat possessively. The heat of him along her bare shoulders and back felt good, and he smelled like soap and Clint. She would never admit it, but she liked the feeling of being physically close to him like this. She even let herself lean into him closer than she normally would, rationalizing that it was for other people’s benefit. They were supposed to be married, at least as far as one of the patrons knew, so they might as well act the part.

“Every man in this room wants to be me right now,” he said, and something in his voice made her eyes search his. But they were dark and unreadable in the dim lighting of the lounge. Natasha had heard such flattery thousands of times before, but never in Clint’s voice, with his mouth so close to hers. She swallowed. It would be easy, so easy, to close that short distance...

“Can I refill your drinks?” The appearance of the waiter broke whatever strange moment had fallen between them, and though Clint moved away only slightly, it was enough to introduce a cold draft where she had previously been warm.

At least, that was how Natasha accounted for the sudden trembling that went through her body.

//\\\

From here the gray light of dawn falls gently over the bed where he lies, doing little to put color into his pale face. It’s the first time she’s seen him since their rescue; she’s spent a couple of days in additional quarantine and debriefing. He’s so still that for a moment Natasha wonders if they’ve lied to her, told her things she wants to hear in order to keep the Black Widow controlled. Then she sees the movement of the sheets as he breathes, his lips slightly parted, and she lets go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Reason returns at the same time. Of course they didn’t lie to her. Not because SHIELD wouldn’t lie to one of their agents, but because they have no idea what Clint means to her. How could they, when until a week ago, she’s not sure _she_ realized it?

He’s her partner, the man who has saved her life more than once, who made it possible to reconstruct herself after she’d been torn down and reassembled again and again by people who saw her only as a weapon to be used. SHIELD knows they have a close connection; it happens naturally when two people put their lives into each other’s hands as often as they have. But he means more to her than that. Clint is more than her partner, more than a comrade, more than a lover. Clint is _herself_. Somehow, in her last rebuilding, she had remade herself around him without even realizing it, the way living tissue grows around a foreign obstruction until it becomes one entity. To excise him from her now would be to risk the same life.

She can’t help but wonder what other truths she’s been keeping from herself – how many other truths are still in her, waiting to be realized.

“Hey.”

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when Clint opened his eyes and trained them on her. “Hey,” she replies, and wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She moves over to the bed and looks down at him, keeping her face impassive. She’s careful not to touch him, though she wants to, wants to feel the tangible proof that he’s still there with her.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, reaching out to take her hand in his, as easy as that. Clint’s never had her issues with intimacy; he’s always been almost belligerent about it. His hand is rough, and dry, and warm, and it’s shocking that something so simple can fill her up so satisfyingly. Nothing has ever felt like this.

Natasha’s eyes suddenly sting, but she doesn’t pull away. She curls her fingers to return the gesture, lightly at first, then with increased pressure until he’s almost wincing. “I’m glad _you’re_ okay,” she counters.

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” he teases.

Her eyes trace the various crinkles in his face, the curve of his lips, the slash of his eyebrows, the line of his jaw. Each feature strangely and unexpectedly precious to her. How had he done it? Wormed his way into her defenses and filled her heart with unnamable things?

“You’re looking at me weird again,” Clint says. “I feel like I’m dying from another horrible disease or something. You’re going to give me a complex.”

 _If anyone’s been infected with something it’s me,_ Natasha thinks, but she says, “ _Durlak._ ”

“I’m not!” Clint objects. “That’s mean. I was trying to—”

“Get yourself killed,” she says, and squeezes his hand to reassure herself again that he hadn’t been successful. Coulson had explained that in later stages of infection, chemical imbalances in the brain caused by the AS-81 virus could cause someone to act out of character. That doesn’t mean she’s going to let Clint off the hook. She has to emphasize to him that what he’d done, what he’d tried to do, is out of the question, that such a thing is completely unacceptable.

“I wasn’t. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. It wasn’t my fault,” he whines. “If I actually wanted to kill myself I could just drink your coffee.”

Natasha lands a fist into his arm, just below the shoulder.

“ _Ow,_ Jesus,” Clint says, using his other hand to rub the spot. “Go easy, would ya, Nat? You really need to work on your bedside manner,” he grumbles.

“I’m not your nurse.”

“Obviously. You’re not even wearing a nurse’s uniform,” he scoffs, his eyes traveling down to her chest.

Natasha’s about to punch him again when there’s a knock on the door. She drops her arm and tugs her other hand out of Clint’s – or tries to, anyway, but he’s holding on tight. She just manages to snatch her hand back and assume a more professional decorum when Coulson walks into the room. Clint’s lower lip is jutting out just slightly as he looks at her, before turning his attention to their handler.

She ignores the way her hand feels bereft without his in it. What is the matter with her? She is thinking and acting like the schoolgirl she’s never been. The Black Widow’s notoriety as a _femme fatale_ is nearly as legendary as that of her skill as an assassin, yet now the idea of someone witnessing the intimacy of her _holding_ her partner’s _hand_ is something that sends uncomfortable prickles into her neck and cheeks?

“Agent Barton, glad to see you’re awake and well,” Coulson says mildly, a slight upturn to the corners of his mouth that could indicate a smile. Or it might not. “Agent Romanoff, a word?”

“She just got here,” Clint says, an edge to his voice.

“It’ll only take a second,” Coulson replies without changing expression.

Natasha follows Coulson out of the room while Clint hollers after them, “Don’t talk about me behind my back!”

“About Agent Barton,” Coulson says immediately as soon as the door’s closed behind them.

“What about him?” Natasha asks, senses going on full alert. “Is he all right?”

“He’s going to be fine, don’t worry.”

Her first reaction is to deny that she’s worried, that she’s just expressing concern for a colleague, but it’d be a lie and they both know it. So she bites the inside of her lip and waits.

“However, he’s going to be out of commission for a couple of weeks as he recovers his strength and stamina. The Director is likely going to send him out on a detail to New Mexico. It’ll probably entail light duties, nothing physically strenuous.”

“And me? I don’t want another partner in the interim,” Natasha says. The feelings she’s been having about Clint are confusing, but it doesn’t mean she wants to work with someone else. If the dangerous fact that she finds her partner attractive – she’s willing to admit that now – is removed from the equation, there’s no denying the plain truth that they are the most effective assassin team SHIELD has ever produced. And even if those feelings are taken into account, there’s no reason she and Clint can’t continue to be highly valuable assets; they _are_ both professionals, the best at what they do.

Besides, Natasha’s not even sure these feelings will last, or if they’re just a form of momentary madness. She could wake up tomorrow and they might be gone, and Clint will just be her partner again, nothing more.

Coulson doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the latter part of her statement. “You’ll be babysitting,” he says.

“Who’s the baby?” Natasha takes the folder Coulson hands over, studying the photo and notes inside. “This baby has a goatee,” she remarks.

//\\\

Natasha opens one eye and stretches comfortably. She allows herself a few moments to soak in the soft sheets and warm sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She smiles as she remembers that they were staying in a decent hotel for once. She turns her head. The sheets are slightly rumpled and there is a slight indent where his head had been, but that is the only evidence he’s been there. She listens for telltale signs that he’s in the bathroom showering, shaving, or brushing his teeth, but all is quiet. She’s alone in the room.

He’d once again been able to leave without waking her. Natasha feels a bit disconcerted. It’s happening more and more lately. Is she losing her edge? How does she sleep so soundly around him?

Her toes sink into deep plush carpeting when she pads to the bathroom. She takes a long, hot shower, half hoping Clint will return and join her, but he doesn’t. She gets ready at a leisurely pace. For once they aren’t on anyone’s timetable but their own, and she is going to take full advantage. After Loki was sent off to Asgard with Thor, Fury had given his unofficial official blessing that she and Clint could go off the grid for a while, and they didn’t need to be invited twice. Their first stop had been one of their favorite B&Bs in Virginia, where they’d decompressed for a day or two. After that they’d headed south, without a specific destination in mind, and eventually found themselves in North Carolina. Last night Clint had brought out a map, and they’d sketched out a plan in broad strokes.

Today they’re going to drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway and take in the scenes to Boone. They might stop to hike for a bit, admiring the tulip trees and red maples, but they also might just drive right on through. Natasha can see through the windows that it’s a perfect day; the Appalachians are going to look amazing against the deep blue sky.

She frowns when she sees that Clint has packed both of their overnight bags, not because she didn’t want him to, but because she’s slightly discomfited by the fact that she’d apparently slept through _that_ as well.

Natasha has just started the in-room coffee maker and is putting the finishing touches on her lip gloss when the phone rings.

“You still in bed?”

She suppresses a ridiculous shiver at the sound of his voice. What is the matter with her? “Nope, I’m about ready.”

“Great,” Clint says. “I’m having them bring the car around. Ready to hit the road? I’ve got warm croissants.”

“Be right down.”

Natasha fixes the two coffees and grabs their bags, making her way to the elevator. Clint is waiting for her in the hotel lobby, in jeans like her. He looks relaxed and comfortable, and smiles when he sees her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He takes his bag and a coffee.

“Where are the croissants?” Natasha demands, donning her sunglasses. “I hope you didn’t get me down here under false pretenses.”

“Would I dare?” he retorts with a grin. “They’re in the car. I’ve already checked out.”

Their white convertible, a Lexus IS C borrowed from Tony, is waiting for them out front, next to an opulent fountain that gurgles and splashes pleasantly. Natasha gets into the car while Clint tips the valet. She opens the pastry bag, inhaling deep. “Mmm.” She pulls one of the croissants apart. It’s just right, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and buttery all around.

Clint slides into the driver’s seat and takes a deep gulp of coffee. He turns to meet her expectant look. “Perfect,” he says with a smile that makes her want to purr like the engine of their car and blink unexpected moisture from her eyes at the same time. So many times. He has been lost to her so many times, but he has always returned to her. She will always find a way to get him back.

Natasha can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses she’s wearing, but she knows they’re the same color as the sea. She arches an eyebrow, then reaches over and puts the car into gear.

“Drive,” she says.

_Every hope and dream that’s dying_   
_Every time that I see you crying_   
_Every step that you keep on climbing_   
_Pray for you now, baby that you figure it out_   
_As you keep chasing the light_

= end =

**Author's Note:**

> I primarily wrote prompt #3, but also used elements of the other two:
>
>> 1\. Trapped. Whether together, or separately. In a cave, or in a firefight. Do they escape? Are they rescued? Does one rescue the other? Does one of them utter the phrase: “Not again!”  
> 2\. Road trip with a third party. They could be escorting him/her somewhere. Could be going somewhere together. I love stories where you get to see a relationship from the outside\  
> 3\. Someone is hurt badly/quite sick and medical assistance is not readily available. The other person has to make tough decisions. 
>> 
>> Things I like: Secret marriages/relationships, silent communication, team bonding, personal growth, recalcitrant people sharing feelings.
>> 
>> I don’t want to receive: children, rape
> 
> Author’s notes: Here’s where I apologize for any inaccuracies in the medical details found in the story. It was oddly difficult to research, but I did my best to make it believable! The title of the story and lyrics are from Mat Kearney’s song “Chasing the Light.”
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed the story, and would love to hear from you either way. Thanks for reading.


End file.
